A letter to my toddler. From the exhausted, frayed mind of a mother…
Dear Sweet, beautiful toddler of mine,
Now most mums pledge, vow, degree or whatever that they will love you forever, like you for always (hate to break it to you sweetheart, but I only like you sometimes, other times I’m contemplating selling you on Etsy) that they would jump in front of a bus for you, take a bullet, lift a car off your body, give you the last cookie and all that lovely maternal stuff. And I mean all of that too, I really do. You are my magnum opus, the best thing I’ve ever made, and I can’t imagine my life without you.
But child…
I pledge, I solemnly vow, with the internet as my witness, that when I am old and gray and wrinkly, with WTF lines between my brows and holy shit creases on my forehead deeper than Valles Marineris (look it up, it’s a big canyon on Mars) that I will throw stuff out of the car and out of my wheelchair at the most inopportune time, just to piss you off. That when you are pushing me through the park for a leisurely stroll, talking about your children and how well they’re doing in school, I will be plotting how and when I can throw my dentures into the grass, and then wail and moan and cry about it, yelling “uh oh, uh oh” twenty seconds later. Sending you on a wild goose chase to look for them and then struggle to calm me down as I pitch an enormous fit over why I can’t put my caked-in-mud dentures back in my mouth.
That when you invite me over for dinner, I will take one bite of the meal (even if it’s delicious and I would normally lick the plate clean) and then throw my hands in the air and announce “all done” only to then open your fridge and stand in front of it for ten minutes. And I may or may not grab something, like a container of yogurt, take it to the floor, sit down and eat it with my hands right out of the tub. Or maybe I won’t eat that yogurt, maybe I’ll just finger-paint your leather couch with it, or wave my spoon around until flecks of yogurt splatter all over the room like beautiful abstract cultured dairy art, who knows? It may have you questioning my senility, and I obviously can’t speak for the future, but I can only hope that even senile I’ll have the sense of humor and wherewithal to exact my revenge.
I will never blame you for your birth or the grueling 29 hours of “discomfort” I endured to finally meet you, never. That was completely self-inflicted; I’d do it all again in a heartbeat if I had to. And I’m guessing you weren’t exactly enjoying those 29 hours either, so let’s just call that one a draw. But now my little peanut, my gorgeous human who has to carry her purse around wherever she goes, and with a smile so bright I’m forced to wear sunglasses indoors, all your weird little “quirks” are fair game for payback.
So, if one day you happen to find random pieces of celery or carrot sticks hidden among your bath towels or stuffed into the baseboard heaters, or you go to pull your covers back and there is a pair of dentures or an apple with some bite marks or a chunk of cheese lying on your pillow, don’t go all batshit cray-cray on your own children just yet. Maybe it wasn’t them, or maybe it was, maybe grandma taught them a new game (revenge minions!) but stop and think for a second before you ban little Euphegenia from her time machine for a week. Because maybe, just maybe it was grandma finally following through with her solemn vow, the pledge that she made all those years ago on a rainy fall afternoon, at her wits end, as she impatiently waited for the clock to hit 5:00 and the wine cork was popped. While you munched on Veggie Straws, oblivious to my frayed nerves and watched Paw Patrol with your friend. Because child, I love you, but revenge is a dish best served cold, just like my dinner, apparently.
xoxo
Quick & Dirty featured in the boxed set Sultry Nights
Humiliated and angry Parker Ryan is ready to erase every last trace of her ex from her mind, body, and soul. Of course, she can be adventurous. Exciting. Sexy. No matter what he said. She needs an exorcism, and Tate McAllister and the island of Moorea in Tahiti are just the man and place to do it. Tate is perfect for the job: billionaire resort owner, scuba instructor, philanthropist and, let’s face it, sex god. So maybe the affair isn’t the wisest move when she has to write her damn feature piece and review the hotel, but if he’s ready and willing to wow her in and out of the bedroom for the next ten days, the fling will be worth it. Parker can get the job done and have Tate fulfill all her fantasies, and she won’t, repeat won’t fall in love with the man. Even if every part of her wants to.
Author Bio
A West Coast baby born and raised, Whitley is married to her high school sweetheart and together they have a spirited toddler and a fluffy dog. She spends her days making food that gets thrown on the floor, vacuuming Cheerios out from under the couch and making sure that the dog food doesn’t end up in the air conditioner. But when nap time comes, and it’s not quite wine o’clock, Whitley sits down, avoids the pile of laundry on the couch, and writes.
A lover of all things decadent; wine, cheese, chocolate and spicy erotic romance, Whitley brings the humorous side of sex, the ridiculous side of relationships and the suspense of everyday life into her stories. With mommy wars, body issues, threesomes, bondage and role-playing, these books have everything we need to satisfy the curious kink in all of us.
Social Media Links
Website: WhitleyCox.com
Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/CoxWhitley/
Twitter: @WhitleyCoxBooks
Instagram: @ CoxWhitley
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